


Sun Kissed

by twistedthicket1



Series: Constellations Of Hearts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mystery, Parentlock, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving into a new flat can be tough, especially when your partner is a possibly insane Consulting Detective and you're just trying to pass medical school. Not to mention the fact that John is hiding the fact that he's signed himself up for military service. Coupled with a case that forces the two rather abruptly into parenthood, John has to admit that he's got his hands just a little bit full. But what happens when an old threat comes to call, and a mysterious stranger visits your children while they're at school?</p><p>Meanwhile, Greg has finally moved in with Mycroft, and everything  for the most part anyway seems to be going smoothly. That is until Greg's estranged thirteen year old daughter that he didn't know he had arrives on his doorstep, claiming that his ex wife and her Mother has gone missing.</p><p>Sequel to Starry Eyed, believe me, it will help if you've read it first....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface- The Old School and the He Who Waits

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, what can I say? It's begun again! *flails in celebration*
> 
> :D 
> 
> I hope that people will enjoy the continuation of this, and that things will turn out for the best! ;P Here we go!

 

 

John considers himself to be a relatively patient person.

At least, compared to the company that he keeps.

He was patient with children, especially when he went to visit his niece at Harry and Clara's house.

(she was just beginning to become truly mobile, and had a habit of sticking things into her mouth and shrieking words she'd heard around her, not that they always made sense).

 

He was patient with his final classes of secondary school, even though the clock seemed to tick on forever and Summer beckoned to him longingly from the window. Even when the school seemed old and dingy and dull without a head of dark curls running about the place stirring up trouble.

 

He was patient when Mycroft kidnapped him occasionally, because he knew that was simply the Holmes' way of having family get-togethers.

He was patient with Greg just like the older man was patient with him as they often met together for a drink and discussed their life living with two of the most powerful and possibly insane men on the face of the planet.

 

More than anything else, he was patient with _Sherlock_ , even when he texted him at all hours of the day, sometimes interrupting him during exams and tests. Since his graduation onto uni, the Detective had made a habit of telling John all about London, the area they together had picked out as the place they wanted to live after they finished school. Most of the time, John enjoyed it, and it made him feel less lonely as he typed away curled up under the covers of his bed, reading with interest the things Sherlock deemed interesting enough to tell him.

Mostly murders.

But occasionally, some tidbit of questionably vital information as to the state of people's lives around him.

 

_**Chemistry Professor is having an affair. Can always tell by the state of their wedding rings.- SH** _

 

_Why do you always sign off with initials? We've been together now for almost three years._

 

_**Professionalism John. Never underestimate it.- SH** _

 

_You didn't even realize you do that. Did you?_

 

John grinned when there had been no reply.

 

Yes, he thought himself to be relatively patient. Especially when he lay in his dorm room late at night and reflected on the fact that he was actually bored out of his mind because there was _no_ murders or action in his school this year. Then he reflected on the fact that he actually _missed_ the murders in a strange way and rolled over and groaned, wondering how Sherlock Holmes had managed to taint his brain so thoroughly in only three years.

And his roomate, Bobby Harts, blinked blearily in his sleep and muttered something about how he had _“Better not be acting like a bloody teenage girl when all through graduation.”_

 

**_Still looking for a flat to share. Found one with a nice view on Baker Street. 221 B sound familiar?- SH_ **

 

_You're kidding._

 

**_Why would I joke about it? But the flat is expensive. I'll need a flatmate.-SH_ **

 

_I'm sure Mycroft would love to keep you company._

 

**_I am NOT letting Mycroft anywhere near the premises, he'll taint it with his evil.-SH_ **

 

_He probably already has the place bugged Sherlock._

 

........ ** _Not for long. Did I mention the landlady is a nice Mrs. Hudson? Oh the irony....-SH_**

 

_You're bloody insane for doing all this. I love you._

 

**_I know. I love me too.-SH_ **

 

_Arse._

 

**_Idiot.-SH_ **

 

and then

 

_**.....I miss you.-SH** _

 

Then John was stopped from replying, because Bobby chucked a pillow at his head after he snorted in laughter. Only another two weeks.

Another two weeks and they would see each other again.

 

John considered himself a patient person, but he could hardly wait.

Until then, school could only be seen as prison.

 

****

“It was the gardener. It's obvious really, when you check his right thumb.”

 

The young man straightened from the crouch he held himself in, pale features looking sharp in the rare sunny day of London as he adjusted the collar of his coat. He is a solitary shape, a shape that does not quite belong amongst the uniforms of police officers and sergeants, similar but not quite the same. His eyes blaze a low azure blue in the flash of the sirens awaiting to take the victim's of the last attack away. A shadow of dark and light against the wet pavement from last night's rainfall. Beside him, The new D.I ran a hand through her light blonde hair, sighing as she looked down at her notebook in which all of the man's observations had been hastily scribbled down in her neat, looping handwriting. Inwardly she groaned at the mess the man had made-

 

The window to the flat he had broken into was in shattered pieces all over the ground and the lights were on, not to mention the shattered vase he had accidentally knocked over. She winced to think what the higher-ups were going to say when she would have to tell them _again_ that they were paying for damages done by the man who was supposed to be _helping_ her solve the cases. With a small scowl she made a mental note to next time have Dimmock take over, otherwise she might very well be charged with the homicide of one Sherlock Holmes. Even if he _was_ refuted to be the best of the best, even being involved on the case that the late Officer Kyousuke had been involved with. Still, Mary Morstan found him to be a right arse, most of the time.

 

Plus, there was the fact that he had originally been admitted into rehab directly after _solving_ the string of Moriarty-related crimes. Not that much was turned up. Just a lot of smoke and mirrors. She respected the fact that he had been able to shed some light on the ambiguous boogey man of the Underworld. Yet she still couldn't be completely trusting of an ex drug addict, especially one that's only been clean for around three years.

 

Now he stood, pacing restlessly like a caged animal as he texted, a strange gleeful smile crossing his features every once in a while as he stared down at the glowing screen. In the night his already pale skin was alabaster, and the small piercing in the cartilage of his ear shimmering faintly like quicksilver. He was always like this, manic one instant and insisting everyone look busy, and then off goofing off, probably playing some videogame. She scowled, walking up to him and using her most authoritative voice she could muster, given it was three A.M and she was running on only a pot of coffee and a bagel.

 

“Holmes! Who're you texting at this hour?”

 

Without looking up from his screen, Sherlock replied smoothly.

“That's none of your concern, Detective Inspector Morstan.”

 

His phone beeped with another incoming message, this time the man smirked outright. Then there was a faintest edge of sadness in his eyes, which quickly dissolved into an impassive mask as he pierced the woman before him with sharp blue-green eyes. She smiled just a little, softening slightly despite herself as she recognized the kind of defensive posture about the young man.

 

“Girlfriend?”

 

The Detective snorted, placing his phone in his pocket. His eyes roved over the crime scene and avoided hers, flicking everywhere but the woman's face. This was how he was most of the time, cold and distant. Yet when he had been staring at the phone Mary had seen just a faint flicker of warmth underneath the act. It was curious.

 

“Something like that.” He answered finally, shrugging away and palming his coat pockets restlessly as if looking for a cigarette. Yet he didn't smoke, Mary knew that much. Otherwise she would have seen him at some point at the smoking lots, where she herself lit up occasionally. More to deal with nerves than anything. A habit from her teenage years. The woman tried again to pry for more information, curious despite herself.

 

“Known them for long then?”

 

“...Three years just about.”

 

_Three years._

 

Oh.

Then they must have been through the worst of it together......

She is privately impressed that their relationship lasted through all of that Hell she had been forced to review on her first day at the job.

“Must have been tough at times.”

Mary said very softly, retreating just a little on the subject. Sherlock looked as if he didn't really notice one way or the other, but she did notice he fixed her with a very piercing stare for one beat of breath before his eyes slid back to the yellow caution tape wrapped around the shattered glass like fairy lights on Christmas Eve.

 

“You miss her.”

 

“Him.”

 

Mary blinked a little, then smiled.

“What's his name?”

 

“John.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Still in school. Out soon though. He'll be training at St. Bart's next year.”

A small, reflexive grin. As if school was some sort of Alcatraz to escape from. Mary couldn't help but chuckle just slightly, and Sherlock's eyes looked to her in small confusion at the sound.

 

“It's nothing.”

She assured hastily, a grin breaking through her features. The young man looked faintly ruffled at her laughter, as if he was uncertain as to whether or not it was directed _at_ him or at what he _said._

“It's just... that's the most you've said to me about your past since you started taking cases again at the beginning of the year. I was beginning to think you just hatched one day full grown behind an alley somewhere, pissing off the forensics team with that arrogant tongue of yours.”

 

He arched a brow in evident surprise, apparently unaware of the change in his demeanour. Then he scowled just slightly.

“This does not get passed around. I won't have my private life publicized. People will become annoying and lower the I.Q of the entire street.”

 

Mary chuckled again, shaking her head. She tipped her hat to the young man, bowing in an exaggerated motion.

“Whatever you say, Holmes. To the rest of the team, you'll just be heartless. Do I at least get to know your boyfriend's full name?”

 

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged in apparently resigned indifference.

“John Watson. And he's not my boyfriend.”

 

“What is he then?”

 

And the man smiled slightly before turning away, hailing a cab with one impossibly long arm. He said the words like they were infinitely more important, more sacred and precious than something as mundane as the word _boyfriend._

 

“He's my Blogger.”


	2. Curious Knockings In Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first chapter besides the preface! wohoo! :3
> 
> hope you enjoy! please let me know what you think via kudo/comment/ interpretive dance XD <3

 

 

John was eating in the caf with his friend Mike Stamford. The white walls of the room seem like a sin to him as he squints blearily, trying to get over yet another sleepless night spent talking to Sherlock and trying to study for his finals. The coffee in his hands isn't something he'd normally drink, but he'd been forced to become a bit of an addict for caffeine due to the workload. As it was he was more than a little buzzed despite his exhaustion as he tucked into his eggs, so much so he barely noticed the new people wandering the campus with signs and propaganda posters.

 

Mike however watched them with interest, light eyes flicking over at the groups of adults with curiosity.

“Career Choices. You know the end of the year is coming when they start hounding you.”

 

John looked up then, looking in some surprise at the dozens of tables set out, everything from Law to Technology to Military. He grinned at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, how many of the sponsors were running about like chickens with their heads cut off. Trying to bully the students walking by into taking a look at their crap. As bad as a fish market really.

 

“Yeah well you won't see me playing into their game. I still have to figure out how I'm paying for my medical degree.”

Mike nodded in sympathy, twirling his fork in his food thoughtfully. His eyes then sparked in question.

“Don't you have a rich boyfriend or something like that?”

 

John snorted, and the sound is wry and frustrated.

“The idiot keeps demanding he pay for everything. Like hell I'm going to let him help me in yet _another_ way. He's already paying for our rent. Not that I didn't argue that too........Besides he's cut off from most of the money just in case of....”

 

But then the young man cut off, not liking to dwell on memories and not willing to share Sherlock's personal life with even a good friend like Mike.

No.

He trusted Sherlock, and he had been clean for three years. Not that it didn't mean there weren't still days where he sensed his partner was tempted. John just made sure to be suitably..... _distracting_ when those times came. A pang of longing for those dark curls and bored eyes suddenly filled a pit in his stomach, and he felt as if he had swallowed an ice-cube. John dutifully tried to dispel it by changing the subject.

 

“How are _you_ planning on paying for it anyhow? Last time I checked your Mum refused to pay for anything and you worked at a café part-time.”

 

Stamford smirked a little, and he rubbed his jaw as if imparting words of wisdom upon a fellow pupil.

“I checked out the _tables_ John. The Army pays good money _and_ covers your education if you promise them three years. It'd be nice to have a mate to hang out with too, if you're interested of course.”

 

“Sounds like baiting people.” John muses, but inwardly he frowns. He and Sherlock rarely talked about that night on Christmas Eve a few years back, but he had meant what he said. He _had_ considered joining the Amry before, and not just because they were good about benefits. As his partner had commented on before, John had a taste for danger, for feeling his life teetering on the edge of a knife-point. He also had a penchant for making sure _others_ survived teetering as well. In a way, the Army had also once been a way to try and escape from his Father's hands when he had been younger. Now however that incentive didn't exist. It was a difficult sort of thing to think about, because in theory he would probably not get put anywhere too dangerous. Yet Sherlock would _hate_ it, and John knew this. He also knew that the git would never _admit_ to hating the idea, and that he would instead opt to stubbornly hide his things or ignore him or even worse _sulk_ until John gave in. It's not that John _wanted_ to leave Sherlock either, but it was a pull that was hard to deny. He had been nursing the longing since he was a small boy, and it was hard to deny himself that option now even though much of his reasoning for joining had changed in the short couple of years since he'd met the Holmses. Sighing, he wondered if he should maybe talk to Harry about it. Though she being his sister would be on Sherlock's side, in all probability. Not to mention she now had a daughter to look after, and John didn't want her worrying. He suspected as well that Clara was planning to propose, and he didn't want to mess that up with his problems.

 

Summer maybe? He hadn't talked to her in a while.... they hadn't had many classes together this year, and for the past couple of years she had been working on repairing the damage Moriarty had done to both her and Irene. He had given them the space he knew they needed, sympathizing. After all, he had needed space too. Sherlock immediately after the case was over and he had ensured John's safety had nearly broken down, withdrawal from going so long without cocaine sending him into a Sherlockian kind of shock. He had for a while been extremely vulnerable for a long time, and rehab had been slow and tortuous. John also still had a therapist, because one didn't just _recover_ from childhood abuse, but things were finally starting to look better.

Once graduation came, all would be finally piecing together in a way he would have never dreamed for himself only a few years before.

Did he really want to destroy that fragile peace, that crystalline hope so soon?

He just didn't know.....

 

“We'll check out the table. But I'm not promising anything Mike so don't get that grin on your face.”

 

After all, what could be the harm in just looking?

 

****

_**Two Weeks Later** _

 

“Sherlock calm the fuck down! _Sherlock_ I can't _breathe!_ ”

 

John laughed and caught the small and slightly unprofessional grin of the driver in the front seat of the black vehicle they were sitting in before he was all but assaulted again by Sherlock's warm lips, pressing against his hungrily and not letting him catch his breath before he stole it again with the insistent probing of his tongue. The blonde teen had barely been allowed to spend an hour at his own graduation party before the black car had pulled into the front of the school, an ridiculously posh stranger in a suit stepping out from it and waving him in. Of course, John might've expected it, considering he knew his parter was impatient as hell and he hadn't seen Sherlock during the actual ceremony. He hadn't been too annoyed really, in fact he had all but leapt into the back seat because he couldn't wait to get his hands on the Detective again. Having not seen him since the yearly Christmas gathering he felt like he was bursting from excitement. John however had _not_ expected Sherlock to be in the car itself, and had barely gotten inside before he was attacked in a fiercely possessive embrace that made him see stars for a moment as he hit his head on the back of the seat.

 

Sherlock seemed to be determined to ignore his feeble protests, instead opting to appeal to John's baser instincts as he sucked on his lower lip before pressing flushed kisses along his clavicle. The blonde bit back a moan as teeth gently fastened themselves on his collar-bone, sending flush warmth down his spine and pooling into his groin.

“Sher-”

 

He tried to warn Sherlock against having sex in his older brother's car, but somehow the words became garbled as Sherlock whispered huskily into his ear.

“I want to just _rip_ this suit off of you. I couldn't stop thinking about it all during the ceremony.”

 

As he said this dexterous fingers were expertly trying to take apart his belt, and John could hear the soft slide of the leather as it moved through the loops and nearly _arched_ into the touch. This time he didn't stop the small sound of desire that worked its' way up from his throat, his voice low and trembling slightly with _need_ as his dark blue eyes looked up into Sherlock's face.

 

 _Christ_ , those bloody curls. How long had it been since John had been able to run his hands through them? As it was his fingers already knotted together at the base of the man's neck, pulling him in for another kiss desperately even as Sherlock's fingers continued fumbling with his belt for a moment longer. It had felt like an eternity since he had done this, and John was tempted to memorize every line, every angle, every drop of _sweat_ and catalogue it so he'd know exactly _what_ he did to his partner. His hands trailed downwards to rest on Sherlock's thin hips, rubbing his thumbs against them in a circular motion that should be soothing but instead was charged with sexual tension. In response the Detective let out a soft moan of _John_ and ground down, causing the blonde's breath to hitch and his hips snap forward out of their own accord.

 

John was just beginning to consider the sheer idiocy of wearing _clothes_ when there was a soft cough, breaking apart the two to realize that the driver was staring uncomfortably out the window, his cheeks just a little red despite his professional manner. Sherlock looked like he could really care one way or the other, but the blonde regretfully pulled away just a little. The Detective let out the faintest whines of protest, but was soon silenct as John gently pushed him off of him, instead leaning into his chest and pressing his nose against the crisp collar of his shirt.

His partner let out a small sound of sulky discontent.

 

“Later love, I promise. Then we can break in the new flat all you like.”

 

Sherlock shivered physically at the words, and though he pouted slightly, he held onto John just a little tighter. The blonde could feel the man's cheek rest against his head, warm and flushed. The Detective's deep baritone rumbled softly like the echoes of a thunderstorm in his ear. Demanding attention from every fibre of John's being.

 

“I will hold you to that I hope you realize.”

 

And John, smiling lightly, pressed the lightest of kisses on Sherlock's chest. Right over his heart. His belt buckle is still loose and half-undone, but he doesn't bother to fix it. Right now he just revels in the sensation of once again being _home_ , because Sherlock's arms are warm and protective and _comforting_ , and they are a better graduation present than anything John could think of in the entirety of the world.

“Of that I have no doubt.”

 

****

They were always together.

She and him, brother and sister. Hand in hand.

Never apart.

It had always been this way, though neither of them had names to call each other. They were just she and he, and it was okay, as the other kids didn't seem to care to use names for them either. Well, most of the time. Sometimes they called them names, but they weren't really _names._ More like insults, and both of them knew that was what they were as they were spat at them aggressively and sometimes came with blows or beatings. Though not usually from the other kids.

Usually from **Him.**

The only one that was not a kid. The one who had been around for a long time, so long that neither of them could really remember a time before. Though it was to be expected when he hit them, because it was usually after they had done something wrong.

It made sense, blows for mistakes.

Physical reminders not to do the same thing again. After all, they had jobs to do, and if the other kids didn't do their jobs then they got punished too. Even though they were both young, they took their jobs seriously.

Very seriously.

A job well done meant food, and that was important. They protected one another, and so a good job meant the other one was safe. The other one was good.

So they worked hard.

 

Because a job well done meant that the other had a better chance at surviving for one day more.

A job well done meant **He** was happy with them, and then he'd pet their heads and smile and sometimes even give them little bits of sweet things like candy and chocolate. They loved those, and ate them greedily because they couldn't help it. Saving it was too hard.

Instead they saved it when he gave them fruits or bread, eating it sparingly and saving it for days when **He** would forget about them. Sometimes she would cry, and her brother would hold and rock her gently, like he had seen Mothers do to their children at the park. He had liked the park, though **He** hadn't known they had gone.

It was a secret.

 

A thing shared just between the two of them.

For they didn't talk like the others.

Talking didn't seem useful. When the other kids talked, they yelled and shouted and screeched at each other, or when **He** talked they whimpered like kicked dogs.

 

So they were silent, and the rest of the household knew them only as the strange twins with softly curled blonde hair and wide grey-blue eyes. The other kids called them strange, because they just watched and listened, their hands interlocked as if they were one entity, and they did their Jobs and kept quiet.

 

They were two ghosts, and they were soundless as night.

 

****

Gregory Lestrade was mostly a happy man.

Content was the word he liked to use.

He had a lovely boyfriend, good acquaintances, and he had quit his teaching job because he was pretty close to retirement anyway with the ridiculous pay-cheque he had been given and quite frankly he was sick of dealing with rich and snobby teenagers. Now he was actually dabbling with the idea of going back to school and maybe taking up Law or something along those lines, a practice he had been interested in as a teen but hadn't been able to take up because of his drinking issues at that age. He lived in a nice if not slightly ornate house that My had insisted they buy, and right now Greg was watching the rain fall outside of his bedroom window and smiling slightly, content to spend the weekend morning just relaxing. Beside him Mycroft's side was empty, but Greg didn't mind too much. After all his partner had a rather strenuous and demanding job, _being_ the British Government and all. He was often gone in the morning by the time his silver-haired partner woke up. God what Greg wouldn't give for the Holmes' level of manic energy.

One could probably power small cities with it if they ever found a way to get Sherlock to run on a giant hamster wheel.

 

The image made Greg grin widely, and he sat up with the covers wrapped about him haphazardly as he yawned. He was just about to consider making himself some coffee or at least tea when he heard the doorbell ring.

 

Not unusual, except for the fact it was only nine in the morning and Greg wasn't expecting any guests. Usually if one of Mycroft's people showed up, they had booked it months in advance. Not to mention if it were Sherlock or John they would have just barged in like a couple of antelopes charging forward.

He frowned to himself.

Something told him this morning wasn't about to be as peaceful as he had hoped.

He just prayed to himself that whoever was outside had an umbrella as he was _not_ about to stand in the rain to have any kind of important conversation.


	3. The Rain Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo mild smut in the beginning. Yeah. XD 
> 
> and more mystery! <3
> 
> Please let me know what you think via kudo/comment

 

 

The first morning that John woke in the flat of _**221 B**_ , he didn't quite believe that was he was seeing was real. That what he felt as he turned around and touched the pair of arms wrapped tightly about him was actually happening. It seemed entirely too beautiful, too perfect, to be able to curl himself against the pale expanse of chest next to him and not have to do anything but revel in feeling comfortably debauched and sleepy. So naturally, it didn't surprise him when he heard his phone ring, shattering the silence and simplicity of the perfect morning with its' shrill cries. John tried to manoeuvre himself out of Sherlock's sleepy octopus-type embrace, only to be pulled more firmly against the young man's chest. A warm, lazy voice drawled against the shell of his ear. Demanding even when laced with sleep.

Typical.

 

“Don't answer that.”

 

In response John curse and tried to kick at him lightly, but only wound up becoming somehow further twisted in the tangle of sheets that Sherlock had at some point during the night cocooned about them. The young man scowled, one arm flailing half off the bed and trying to reach the little rectangular piece of plastic on his night-stand table.

 

“Damn it Sherlock! Let me up!”

 

“If you answer that, you'll have to leave. So. No.”

And the Detective burrowed his nose against the inside of John's neck, inhaling deeply and letting his eyes flutter open so he could see the delightful little scowl of his lover underneath him. John sighed, for someone who was so skinny he could be bloody _heavy_ when he put his mind to it. He could move under him, and what was more both of them were stark naked and John was becoming rather distracted as Sherlock moved against him under the covers. He felt the curve of a small triumphant smile against his neck as his lover felt him struggle slightly less, breathing turning a little bit into panting as both of them turned so they could face each other. John rested his forehead against Sherlock's dark blue eyes heavy with want even as he chastised him.

“It could be my part-time job. Someone might need my help.”

 

“Ignore them.” Sherlock advised, lips ducking down to taste the tanned skin of the blonde's neck, leaving bright purple splotches to align with the faded ones from last night. John's back arched into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he made a small noise in the back of his throat before saying

 

“I work at a hospital. You do know that right.....?You're a bad man.”

 

And Sherlock's smile is positively sinful as he looked up at John, eyes darkened with a feral kind of desire as he bared his teeth. The silver of his cartilage piercing glinted brighter than his eyes.

“Is that how you would describe me?”

 

He purred silkily, sending shivers down John's spine and straight to his groin. The young man retaliated by sliding his hands slowly down the white canvas of Sherlock's body, coming to rest just above his navel before hovering deliciously in place. The Detective groaned softly, and John suddenly couldn't take it any more and rolled them over, pinning Sherlock into place with his hips and panting over top of him. His voice was rough with want as he dove back down, tracing and mapping the man's lips with his tongue even as his fingers reached up and pinched the nub of his nipple gently. Sherlock's response was instant, his hips bucking up as the man whined into his mouth.

“Dangerous too.”

 

John said as he drew away, reaching down to stroke Sherlock's length once in a slow movement and grinning wickedly at the completely perverted sound he draws from his lover. Chest heaving, quivering, Sherlock still managed to sound somehow controlled as he looked up at him in disbelief.

 

“ _I'm_ dangerous? You _do_ realize you're on top of _me_ right?”

 

John laughed, and the sound was rich and throaty. He bent down to kiss his lover, still working on him in slow but getting faster strokes. The warmth of Sherlock's mouth called to him like a Siren, and he couldn't resist it.

“The most dangerous person I know.”

 

He whispered when they broke apart once again, both gasping for air and beginning to become painfully warm and hard. John bit his lip savagely when one of Sherlock's hands found his length, hands expertly touching in just the right way to send a jolt of fire throughout him. They both began to rock slightly, getting into the rhythm that came with the dance of making love. They were both now ignoring the annoying rings of their phones, as Sherlock's began to vibrate on his bedside table.

However neither noticed as John scrambled to open one of his drawers, pulling out a bottle of lube and opening the bottle with a _snap_ that was loud in the heated air.

 

And if someone had told John his morning after this would all go to hell, he wouldn't have believed them.

Sherlock's voice called him, asking for more with a single sentence.

 

“And yet whenever I say dangerous, here you are.”

 

****

 

It was raining.

She didn't acknowledge it, but her dark hair was soaked and curly with wet as it trailed down her shoulders, clinging to her lightly freckled cheeks. In fact it streamed down her skin, dripping on the dry part of their front step that was sheltered by an overhanging. No umbrella accompanied her.

 

Lestrade realized somewhat distantly in a part of his mind that she must've been out in it for quite a while, for it to have gotten so thoroughly damp as he looked at her in confusion and surprise. He had been prepared to meet some business man looking for his partner, not a little girl who looked to be..... _Fourteen? Fifteen? Maybe younger than that.... hard to tell...._

 

He thought maybe she was asking directions for someone, but looking about he saw no car parked in the driveway. Plus, the girl didn't speak. Instead she stared at him, and he looked at her and tried to glean from her some clue as to her purpose here.

 

She was tall, bean-pole like, and her skin was the sort of tanned that one didn't get in London. Her powder-blue boots were covered in mud, probably from trudging through the gardens.

_Hopped the fence then._

Greg noted, silently impressed at someone so young having that kind of determination. If not careful it could have torn her coat. From what he could see it looked intact.

 

Mycroft would probably have a fit about that later on. He hated when security even as simple as a fence was breached.

 

She looked up at him with wide green eyes, freckled face looking at him in inquiry as she looked at something held scrunched in her hands. Behind her, a single pink suitcase matched the plain button-up coat she wore, the collar flipped up around her chin. She held her pointed chin up defiantly, and her feet were planted as if expecting him to attack her. Not that Greg didn't think he couldn't take her, honestly if she tried to kick him.

She looked like she was considering it.

 

Oddly enough, Lestrade's first thought as he looked at her in confusion was that he didn't know Mycroft had hired help in his own home. As illogical as the thought was, he dismissed it instantly and called himself _stupid._

The girl was too young for that kind of hard work. Stupid really. But her rosebud lips didn't open to give him any kind of verifiable answer as to _who_ she was as she stared at him, seemingly transfixed on his face as he shifted self-consciously in the doorway.

 

Finally, when he could take her staring no longer, he chanced speaking himself.

“Um.... Hello. Who're you then?”

 

Greg is shocked when her blank expression twists into a face full of tears, and he sees now her truly ragged state as in a faintly Irish accent she sobs and runs to him, wrapping her arms about his waist before he can move away and crying into his shirt. Her voice is hoarse, like she has been crying already. It's ragged tone sinks in his ears.

 

“Please..... You have to find her....”

The little girl whimpered, and the object that she had held in her hands fluttered on the ground so that Greg could see it was a photograph. His stomach dropped out from him as he saw the image, because smiling up at him was a younger, dark-haired version of himself.

 

His arm is wrapped around his first wife, Lily.

And suddenly, the girl looks up at him, and he recognizes the shape of her nose, and the colour of her hair, and the way her jaw clenches even as her lips tremble.

Because they are all things that have been staring at him in the mirror since he was a small boy, and then Greg can't breathe, can't blink, can't _think._

 

Because the girl's hands ball themselves into the fabric of his shirt, and she trembles as she presses her face into his chest. Her voice whimpers, tired and seeming to break from exhaustion and fear.

“Please.... She said to find you if something happened.....Please....”

 

And Greg, for all his strength, for all of the things he's faced in his life from dealing with unruly teenagers and nearly getting shot at by snipers and living with Mycroft Holmes, isn't surprised when his knees give out on him.

 

Frankly, he's just proud of the accomplishment that he manages to stumble backwards before he does it, kneeling in the entrance to his home and looking up in shock at what looks to be very much his daughter staring at him in tears and utterly distraught.

 

****

“What's the case then?”

D.I Morstan looked at the file in front of her, glancing at the pictures splayed before her on the desk as she sipped the coffee she had gotten from the vending machine. It was awful stuff, but she needed the buzz. She had been called at three in the morning over this case, so she assumed it must be at least marginally important. She hoped it was at least, or she was going to throttle someone.

 

Sergeant Dolin smiled at her in sympathy to the long hours she'd been pulling lately, explaining the situation before them by gesturing to the pictures.

“A complaint's been called in a little neighbourhood about a suspected Drug operation running under the radar. The caller said they were concerned because it seemed that the kids of the home were from Foster care, and that many of them hardly ever went to school. As well a teacher phoned because of one of them and said they felt concerned as she found what looked like receipts to some kind of transaction in the kids' bag. The kid was only in grade one, and it looked all hand-written. Decided we should check it out.”

 

Morstan sighed, running a hand through her blonde hair before nodding. It was likely that the neighbourhood was just overreacting, but when kids were involved sometimes it was good to overreact just in case. She didn't like to think what might happen if sometimes she didn't go with her instinct, and she had a bad feeling about this one as she looked at the pictures of the home and the town. Peering hard at one of the images, she noticed in the window of the house two figures, seemingly staring out at the camera even though it was obvious from that distance they wouldn't have been able to see anything.

 

“Who're they?”

 

The Sergeant shrugged, looking at the picture of the two heart-shaped faces looking outside with a kind of lonely expression.

“Looks like two of the kids. Pretty young. There's eight in total there.”

 

Morstan stared at those twin pairs of blue eyes a moment longer before sighing and closing the file before her.

 

“Got a name and a warrant?”

 

Her colleague grinned, already planning ahead.

“One Robert Grant and his wife Charlene Grant. And the warrant's already being approved.”

 

The D.I nodded firmly, wondering to herself if she should call Holmes. However this seemed like a simple enough case, and she wasn't too worried. A part of her knew he'd probably act annoyed that she'd left him out later on, but the truth was that she new he had been excited to spend time with his John. He acted like a child sometimes, but truthfully she liked the man. As crazy as he could be.

Also annoying.

And stuck-up.

Really, he was a prick.

Still.

A prick with more heart than he gave himself credit for.

She smiled slightly to herself, wondering if she'd ever find someone to look at in that way who'd give her the time of day. Then she chuckled to herself, convinced that the sort of life she lead didn't allow that.

Too dangerous and much too busy

 

Maybe in another universe, another time, she could've told herself that she was unhappy, but the truth is she wasn't.

She enjoyed a puzzle almost as much as Sherlock Holmes himself.


	4. The New and Strange Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me a while ^_^ moving takes a lot out of a person! anywho, I will be taking a hiatus for a bit soon, but I will try to get at least one more chapter in before I do! :D
> 
> Enjoy! comments and kudos bring sunshine to my world!

 

 

It is silent in the house.

Deathly so.

 

As is often the case during the day, when the rest of the children are at school and He is not around. Together, they sometimes play a game when no one expects them to do anything and they have the place to themselves. It’s something they learned from a picture book, even though they can’t read the strange scribbles on the paper. She pretends to be one of the curious flying creatures, faerie as one of the older kids had called them. Not that she had heard the sound that had come from his lips. Rather her brother explained it to her later with the way he had. She’d collect little shiny gadgets and doo-dads about the house, little things like the loose door-knob on the closet and one of one of the older girls’ hair clips. She’d bring them to him, and he’d hide them about the house, and they’d together pretend they were an explorers and faeries, searching for lost treasures. It was a fun game, and he’d laugh at her wide grin. Sometimes, he’d make necklaces for her out of string and the shiny things they stole. In return she’d make him paper crowns from the junk mail that He would toss in the paper recycling and carefully carve out the pointed shapes of triangles using scissors from the drawer. Of course they were always careful to clean up before anyone came home. They’d carefully hide the scraps under the sheets of their small bed (a dresser drawer they had filled with blankets) and put the pieces of the necklace back in their proper places. After all, they were meant to be ghosts.

 

Not poltergeists.

 

The house was their silent friend, familiar floorboards creaking to tell them of each other when they crept about and jumped out from behind walls while making faces. It would also tell them in its quiet silences that they were safe, that they were allowed to play like this. They knew its rolling steps and white walls better than any of the other children did, and they could be soundless as mice when they wanted to be. It proved incredibly useful, as when one could pass without noise they were often disregarded. Indeed, their silence meant much of the time was spent listening to others’ conversations, gathering information silently. They watched and they learned, rehearsed and saw. Together they remembered each detail of survival, and how to go about getting what they wanted. It was how they learned to trade for food, and how they learned how not to make Him angry. The house was their caretaker when no one else was around, and so they treated it with respect. They cleaned its floors when no one else did. They made the windows shine even when it wasn’t their job. They put the other children’s belongings away. In return, the house didn’t tell anyone what they did when no one else was about. How sometimes they’d speak aloud to one another in funny, broken English. Sometimes in their own language that they had made up together. No one came for them, and no one hurt them. They loved it, and they both cherished the times when they were alone.

 

Except today, it all changed.

 

Today there was a new sound, and it echoed throughout the house loudly like a gun going off. He froze and she followed, her hands’ gripping the banister of the stairs as he ducked behind the door of the cupboard under the steps. Eyes wide, they looked at each other without daring to draw breath as it came again after a pause. Sharp. Loud.

There was a knock at the door.

 

And then, a voice. Female and tense.

 

“This is police! We have a warrant for a search! Let us in!”

 

Together, they turned to stare at the front door. Mouths open slightly in shock.

Then, the doorknob began to turn and jiggle restlessly. That’s when he woke up.

 

He suddenly lunged and pulled her into the closet with him, shutting the cupboard behind them and plunging them into darkness  just as someone forced the front door to open.

 

****

She called herself Hayley.

Later on, Greg would remember that Lily’s favourite band had been Paramore.

He’d also recall that once, she had asked him if he liked that name.

He had said yes.

Though he hadn’t thought much about it at the time.

 

She stared at him with an unnerving, fixated gaze from above the steaming rim of the mug of hot chocolate he had made for her. Greg returned her look with one of his own, unable to tear his gaze away from the young girl drying herself in front of the fire he had set up. Her clothes dripped onto the carpet she sat uncomfortably on, legs crossed and jeans slowly turning from black to dark blue as the water dried from them. He hadn’t said a word to her as of yet, but so far she hadn’t seemed to have minded. Her pointed chin jutted out slightly in a look of intense concentration as her gaze swept over him, teeth nibbling her lip in a way that reminded Lestrade painfully of his ex-wife. She had a blistering sort of glare about her too just like Lily, and he resisted the urge to flinch away from it as it came back to rest directly on his face.

 

He didn’t think he did a very good job, as a second later her eyes narrowed.

In a strangely Sherlock-type gesture, she opened her mouth and stated an observation. Her tone wasn’t accusing, but it held to it a sort of wariness that held in it the suspicion that she might get kicked out of the large mansion she had just been invited into.

 

“You’re in a new relationship.”

 

Greg started, then looked at where her eyes darted towards. He looked at his right hand and noticed the golden band he wore with some surprise. It had been two years ago that he and My had gone out to buy the rings, and he barely even noticed the comforting weight of it any more. It had been at the time a promise from his lover, a guarantee. His way of saying that never again would there be a repeat of the incidences of before. They weren’t exactly married, but Lestrade couldn’t have cared less. To him the meaning behind the vow was more important than the tradition of it. In sentiment, he and My had been married probably since the Moriarty incident. When both had realized what they meant to the other.

When he answered, his voice was low and subdued. He wasn’t sure how this girl who appeared to be his daughter would react to the idea that her father was now dating a man, but he supposed she was bound to find out if she was staying for any length of time (And by the determined set of her jaw, Greg was fairly certain she was. After all, Lily had that same unconscious mannerism all through their divorce).

 

“Yes. I am. His name is Mycroft.”

 

She wrinkled her nose, the gesture scrunching up the light dusting of freckles on her face.

“Mycroft? Who names their kid Mycroft?”

 

For the first time, Lestrade smiled grimly at his daughter. He was surprised that it was the name she questioned of all things. Though secretly relieved.

 

“People with a particularly twisted sense of humour. I suspect it was a tradition thing, as his brother’s name is Sherlock.”

 

Hayley peered at him in disbelief, as if she couldn’t quite believe a parental figure could be so cruel as to name their child something so strange. She sipped her mug of hot chocolate as she mulled over the information in her head slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was significantly mournful.

“She never said you were in a new relationship....”

 

Greg sighed. He scratched the side of his head as he recalled in distaste his younger years.

“That’s probably because at the time, I was in no shape to get a job, let alone find a lover.”

 

She nodded at him, as if she understood what he was saying somehow even though that was impossible. After all, it was very hard to explain to any child alcoholism, let alone one that was obviously showing signs of shock in the way her hands shook and she stared glassily in front of her. When Greg had finally let Hayley in, she had begun the shivering. It was as if upon finding him, the last vestiges that had held the little girl together had fallen apart into pieces. She had stopped crying, but she was quiet. As if she couldn’t find the words to say to him now that she was here. Greg had called My, but had gotten his secretary. Apparently, a meeting with the leader of Korea was put in higher value than your partner’s long lost daughter showing up on his doorstep. She had refused to let him through.

Lestrade was reluctant to call the police yet either, because when he had mentioned it Hayley had stiffened, and she had looked at him so pleadingly that his good reasons to do so died before they reached his throat. It was strange, because technically Greg knew he didn’t have a shred of evidence to say the little girl drying herself in front of him was actually his daughter. Yet one glance from those eyes and he had set down the phone, the thought of causing more distress to her sending an unpleasant twist through his stomach.

She looked so small, and so very tired.

Her eyes were drooping already, and she had twice stifled a yawn since sitting herself down.

It was a struggle to even raise her head it seemed.

 

So here he found himself, curled in his favourite, tired old chair. Staring at her.

She staring at him, struggling to stay awake.

It was like a silent film, except their actions weren’t exaggerated.

Rather, they were muted and dull.

Like sound itself was sucked from the room by a black hole.

 

After about ten seconds of it Greg couldn’t take it any longer.

He leaned forward, frowning as he gently asked.

“Hayley, where is your Mum? How did you know where-”

 

But he never got to finish his sentence, as suddenly the little girl’s heavy eyes slid closed, and she yawned. Before he knew it Greg was catching her cup before it went clattering to the ground, and Hayley was slumped against the rug. Her breaths came in slow, even draws as he leaned over her, cradling the saucer and muttering obscenities under his breath. She didn’t stir despite his cursing, long dark hair fanned about her face like a wildly curling mane as she curled her knees up to her chest. She was asleep before Lestrade could formulate the idea to wake her, and he found himself strangely unwilling when he looked at the dark circles under her eyes. With a small sigh he set the cup down on the table, reaching to his chair to grab the knitted afghan hanging over its back. He set it on her lightly, figuring for now it was all he could do.

 

Greg left the sleeping girl on the rug by the fire, his heart torn between panic over what he was going to do and the knowledge that his child was sleeping right before him.

Something only a moment ago he’d think unimaginable.

Impossible.

Something he would have thought would send him running for the hills.

 

And yet perhaps instinctively, he looked at her silhouette outlined by the fire, and found himself unable to draw away. He sat himself back into his chair, tucking his knees against his chin like he himself was a child, and stared at this new person who had waltzed into life.

 

Who looked by the state of their comfort as they snuggled deeper into the blanket as if they weren’t planning on disappearing for a very long time.

  
  



	5. The Secret Language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo! so I'm back from hiatus if you didn't already know ^_^   
> Hope to be back up and running on a fairly normal schedule now....
> 
> Thanks to my fantastic beta Iolre, as she makes my writing pretty :3 and I hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

John had just managed to escape the cage of Sherlock’s possessive limbs and stumble down the stairs when he realized to his dawning horror that though his partner had moved in a good couple of months before him, Sherlock hadn’t actually bothered to unpack anything from the boxes. The living room proved to be filled with stack upon stack of cardboard cubes, all inscribed with a familiar messy hand. He muttered a curse as he saw that many had been opened, but only so that the young detective could have access to bits and pieces of the things inside for experiments or out of necessity. A coffee mug rested on the kitchen counter, next to a jar of suspicious-looking eyeballs that stared at John accusingly as he took a risk and opened the fridge.

 

He probably should’ve just left it well enough alone, for what he found in there waiting for him was something startilingly unpleasant. He very nearly gagged, not from the sight but from the _smell._

 

Sherlock eventually got out of bed as well as the sound of John’s cursing rose to a vicious barking of profanities, his dark curls splayed messily about his head as he yawned. He was just cinching his favourite blue robe closed when John rounded on him, dark blue eyes decidedly manic as he pointed a finger up at the detective’s visible collar-bone.

 

“You were supposed to get started on this almost two weeks ago, Sherlock!”

 

His darkly-curled partner muttered something unrepentant and unintelligible, navigating his way through the living room and narrowly avoiding knocking over a stack of official-looking files so he could flop on to his favourite chair. Though Sherlock didn’t often sleep, when he finally did crash he was absolutely impossible to get going again. He grumbled sleepily and rubbed at his eyes childishly, mumbling something that sounded roughly like _“Do we still have any tea left or did I use it for that experiment three days ago?”_

 

In response John cursed again, realizing that he’d have to work on cleaning the flat up at a later time. He really had stayed in bed longer than he should have, and he would have to rush to get to the hospital on time. At this rate, finding the toaster alone would be more trouble than it was worth. He dug around for his suitcase, finding it behind a stack of boxes labelled “John’s never-ending supply of jumpers”.

 

In hindsight, letting Sherlock label the boxes may not have been the most intelligent of moves.

 

His partner watched him scurry about, an expression of contempt on his face that seemed to say ‘How on earth do you have so much energy at such an ungodly time of the day?’.

 

“I was on a case. I forgot about.... the mess....” Sherlock muttered to himself.

 

John snorted, rolling his blue eyes in exasperation. He  pulled on a pair of trousers that he took  from his suitcase, tugging them over his pants even while his other hand fumbled for some kind of shirt. He was startled when a pale hand reached from behind him, pressing an indigo button-down into his hands. Sherlock, having moved soundlessly from the couch to stand behind his partner, placed a soft kiss to the back of his neck an pulled the smaller man against his chest in a brief hug before pulling away.

 

John caught the slightly worried look in Sherlock’s eyes before they smoothed over into impassiveness, the taller man feigning indifference even as he swiped the mug on the kitchen counter into his fingers to make himself something caffeinated and hot.

 

“You don’t have to stay... if you don’t want to.... I didn’t keep my promise after all... I should’ve cleaned up more....You can leave until I’ve done it.”

 

If anyone else had said that to him, John would have thought they were testing him. Yet Sherlock’s spine was just slightly stiff with worry, and he couldn’t quite maintain his mask of indifference when he was using John’s favourite mug to drink from and had been for the last three weeks.

 

The blonde man couldn’t help but grin at the foolishness of it all, his anger dissipating in an instant as he couldn’t stop from chuckling. The detective looked at him like a cat that had been dumped in cold water as John laughed, a scowl of embarrassment flashing on his features as he made as if to sulk away. However the shorter man wouldn’t let him, reaching out to grab his sleeve and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug if only to hold him in place long enough to listen.

 

“You’re a right git, you know that? We’ve been through so much and you still don’t realize that you’re stuck with me?”

 

He flicked Sherlock’s cartilage piercing, just hard enough that the detective grunted in affronted shock. Then John pulled away, smiling widely even as he stood on tip-toe just to brush the crest of the detective’s brow with a feather-like kiss.

 

When he turned to go, his voice was warm and sunny as spring after rain.

 

“Believe me Sherlock Holmes, it’d take a damn nightmare or miracle at this point to tear me away from you.”

 

****

 

“It’s actually in some ways a miracle they’re even alive.”

 

Mary stared straight ahead at the two rooms before her, separated only by a giant mirror and visible by a clear window in each. In each of them, a small and dirty child sat curled in opposite corners, silent and unmoving. They were in some ways eerily alike, being twins and sitting in the exact same position. Like two ends of a plane of glass, different only in very slight ways. From the reports that the other sergeants had given her after her break, they hadn't moved an inch since arriving at the yard. In fact they were so still, that a person could almost miss them if they didn't know where to look. Like stone statues they crouched, half-wild and uncommunicative to even a person skilled in dealing with abuse cases (as they tried to bring in sergeant Fairgrew, who had worked with issues like these before). One boy. One girl. They were silent as death itself. Studying their appearance from the window, Mary scratched the back of her head in a physical manifestation of her distress.

 

Poor kids.

 

The truth was, she suspected they couldn't talk, or rather they had forgotten how. They showed signs of long years of solitude and abandonment, reacting to human contact like it was something to be feared rather than sought out. The boy would scream when people tried to enter the room unannounced, and the girl had apparently ducked under the bed and refused to come out after a therapist had tried conversing with her. No amount of coaxing so far had been able to get them to treat anyone with anything other than terror.

They would stare at the world with hateful glares to mask their panic, curled against one another like they were the only protection they had ever known. Mary could vouch for the fact that when two pairs of identical eyes tried to stare you down with enough vitriol to take down small armies, there was a discomfort one couldn't deny.

 

It was obvious they were fraternal siblings from the moment Mary had laid eyes on them, though the records would hopefully give more insight into their identities. Right now they were nameless, shapeless ghosts in the foster care system, and there was nowhere for them to go.

 

Flexing one arm tiredly, she took a sip of the somewhat watery coffee that Sergeant Briggs had gotten for her, wincing at the flavour. She wondered to herself how the world could fall to Hell in her eyes so quickly. True, she was essentially the rookie despite somehow being put into a position of power. All luck of the draw really, she had been hoping for at most a nice desk job. She was meant to be in charge, but she only knew the theory behind abuse cases. It was evident that was what this was beginning to turn into the deeper the investigation went. 

 

It had only been a few hours since she had brought the two kids in, but it was already apparent that they were half-feral from lack of human attention. They had been the only children in the house, and they had been found hidden under the cupboard stairs, rather filthy and looking not unlike wild cats left to starve. The boy had immediately attacked when they opened the door, leaping upon Sergeant Dolin like a rabid animal in order to protect his sister. He was so small and weak that ~~luckily~~ he hadn't been able to do much damage, but the growling noises he had unleashed from his peeled lips had been enough to unsettle the man for the rest of the evening. 

 

They had loaded the kids into the back of the car (fighting for the whole way). It was a messy situation, because others were already bringing the other kids into the yard's temporary custody, but so far Mr. And Mrs. Grant hadn't been seen. Either they had somehow caught wind that their little smuggling ring (because again, that's what it appeared this was) had been compromised or something had happened to them on their last outing. In either case, finding them was proving already to be an elusive chase. That, and the fact that they so far hadn't been able to get any information out of any of the kids they have brought in, meant that this case already had a high chance of growing cold.

 

It was a thought that made a ball of lead tighten in Mary's chest when she saw the two small, broken figures sitting in the rooms before her.

 

Mary sighed, shaking her head as she pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at one of the few contacts on the list. She couldn't believe that already she was considering texting him for help.

 

Honestly, what kind of D.I was she, when she was beginning to rely on amateurs to help solve her cases? Her higher-ups would have her arse handed to her on a silver platter if they ever found out. Not that she intended to have them find out..... She had wanted to give him a few days off too, with his boyfriend.... no, blogger as he put it. Strange bloke. A surge of annoyance flowed through her, and she almost put the phone back into her pocket. Why jump the gun? No need to panic just yet and call in the heavy artillery....

 

The shadow of dawn was what made her in the end look up, the sun streaming in through the window with its first early rays of light. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, her head turning to see it was the girl. She had risen from her crouch on unsteady bare feet, looking about the room in a dazed sort of way. Mary could see her eyes were red from crying The girl came to look out the window, freezing when she caught sight of the D.I standing in its frame. Her eyes were blue, the kind of light colour that could make a person think of a clear sky on a warm day. They were wide in her pinched face, and they stared at Mary with a softness behind the veil of blonde hair she hid her features behind. A pink scrap of tongue darted out from her lips tentatively, her gaze landing on the half-eaten doughnut that the D.I hadn't bothered to finish due to stress and paperwork. Though they were separated by a pane of glass, Mary found herself smiling gently, setting down her coffee to slowly approach ~~closer towards~~ the window. The girl didn't move from the centre of the room, but she didn't run away. She stood silently, watching the woman approach with eyes shaded in suspicion and mistrust. Yet there was a light in those depths, something that hadn't been there when they had been forced to drag the two children out of the only home they had probably ever known.

 

A spark of intelligence.

 

Suddenly, the girl's head snapped about, staring hard at the mirror that separated her and her brother's room. Carefully, slowly, she walked in its direction, seemingly forgetting about Mary entirely. The D.I, trying to regain the child's interest, pressed the intercom that let her speak on the radio system in the room. Her voice crackled to life over the speaker.

 

“Is there anything you need? Want? I'm Detective Inspector Morstan.... Is there a name we can call you?”

 

But the child didn't even acknowledge her voice, not even flinching at the new sound as she stared hard at her on reflection, pale brows drawing together in speculation. Mary watched as slowly, the child's hand came up to touch the smooth glass, a twin version of herself rising to meet her fingers, as she tilted her head in what seemed to be interest.

 

The D.I was shocked when she pulled her hand into a fist, and experimentally knocked on the wall twice.

 

From the other room, the boy's head lifted immediately, and then he was standing as well.

 

Running over to the far wall, he immediately tapped out an elaborate  code, dutifully drilling out some memorized pattern against the surface of the mirror. The little girl, hand flat against the glass pane, broke into a wide smile of unabashed relief.

 

And Mary realizing something in a strange wash of revelation, felt her fingers sliding over the contact name.

 

She texted Sherlock Holmes six simple words.

 

_I've got a case for you. -MM_

 

He responded perhaps a minute later, the tone of his text decidedly sulky.

 

_**Busy. -SH** _

 

She blinked, somewhat surprised that Sherlock wasn't practically chomping at the bit to get more information. He must not have been exaggerating when he had hinted at the fact that this 'John Watson' significantly changed his priorities. She tried again, rolling her eyes and muttering to herself that the one time she actually wanted Holmes to interfere, he was playing good citizen. Bugger.

 

_Drugs bust operated using children. No sign of the parents, or even a clue as to whether or not they were even as far up as it went. Suspicions are there's more to it than that. Have two children in custody now. Won't talk to anyone. Need your help. –MM_

 

 

 

_**What do you expect me to do? I'm no good with children. -SH** _

 

Okay. Point taken, she supposed. Still, Mary sighed sharply through her nose and gave it one last effort. If Holmes was really stubborn enough to ignore the case, she'd have no hope. But she'd do her damnedest to make sure she had done everything she could.

 

 

 

_Do you know someone who is then? Because soon the authorities will be taking this over, and chances are these kids will be lost to social services. You may never get a chance to question them again. Plus, something's.... different about them –MM_

 

The reply was immediate.

 

_**How so?-SH** _

 

And Mary, looking at the two siblings that stood facing each other despite being separated by two mirrors and two walls, snapped a picture. What Sherlock received on his mobile was an image of two reflected objects, nearly perfectly synchronized in physical position and expression. Their faces were locked in concentrated awe.

 

_Fraternal twins. They seem to have made up a code or language only the two of them can understand. Can you crack their code so we can communicate with them?-MM_

 

 

 

After a moment in which Mary paused for a beat of a breath, her phone dinged softly.

 

Sherlock's reply was firm.

 

_**I'm on my way. -SH** _

 

****

 

Mycroft was in a meeting with the Ambassador of Korea when he got the text from Anthea. His secretary, normally so careful to maintain order and schedule to his daily life, usually wouldn't dare think to text him in the middle of such an important discussion. That was in fact the first clue to the ginger-haired official that something was indeed definitely wrong. His conversation cut off mid-sentence, he uttered profuse apologies even while glancing quizzically at his screen. If it was his younger brother again honestly, he was half-tempted to tie Sherlock to a tree.

 

What he saw made him pale, for once the problem much worse than just Sherlock.

 

_The Wanderer has come home._

 

It was then that Mycroft Holmes, for once forgetting entirely about etiquette, rose to his feet. He managed to give the Ambassador one, icy look before he tucked his phone into his pocket, muttering excuses.

 

He left without a word, leaving the man sputtering and his fellow business associates giving him a look akin to panic.

 

Mycroft didn't particularly care.

 

 

 

Because if Anthea was correct, then he had much bigger problems to worry about.

 

 

 

He'd have to call Greg.

 

He'd no doubt be working late tonight.


	6. The Man In The Dark Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fairly short chapter... sorry I haven't updated in a while! ^_^ Got swamped with a bunch of writing projects and am only now just managing to pull through :3

Dark.  
It was all dark. Like night without stars lighting the way. Like a lantern gone out.   
Her brother could not be found, but she knew he was somewhere nearby. 

She did not like the dark.  
Did not like how it made her feel trapped, covered in a veil that blocked everything out. Sometimes she wondered when she had been left too long in it if she had lost her sight. It was a scary thought, one her brother often got sad about when she told him. He didn't like it either.

She hoped it wasn't dark in his room. 

****  
Light. 

Light came to him in a shining expanse, forcing him to squint and scowl from under the bed where he was hiding. The door that was locked from his side squeaked slightly in opening, a pair of dark leather shoes tapping their way in to his room and pausing directly in front of him. He glared at them, willing them to disappear as they were attached to The Woman that brought them here and he hated The Woman for taking away his sister. However the feet didn't budge and instead Her voice washed over the room, patronizing and foreign.

“Hey there. Care to come out for a little bit? I've got a chocolate croissant from the cafeteria and someone who's quite interested in meeting you, if you'd like that.”

He didn't respond except to curl more tightly into the far corner, locking his arms about his knees. His lips pressed against his kneecap, he listened to The Woman's small sigh as she set a plate down on the tile floor. A pastry greeted him warmly, its smell wafting deliciously towards the boy's nose and making his stomach growl. He licked his lips, willing himself not to shuffle over and give in to the voice that was screaming inside of him to take what was being offered. He stayed put stubbornly, chin setting, blonde hair glinting slightly as he turned his head in refusal. After a second, he heard another voice murmur softly from the doorway.  
They said something the boy didn't quite catch.  
The Woman responded immediately.

“Just be careful. He hasn't been violent so far, but I can't guarantee your safety if you don't want to wait until he's properly settled. They've grown up in a bad way, and are probably going to be suspicious of people, especially men. What I'm saying is, don't expect a whole lot the first time around.”

Another voice, deeper this time, scoffed slightly. The sound was harsh and acerbic, and startled the boy a little. His eyes narrowed as he listened in on the conversation.

“He understands everything we're saying Morstan. It's obvious by the way he's responding to you with general disgust. He wants to be spoken to directly, not like a victim in a crime scene.”

He gaped silently at the correct deduction. How could a stranger know that? How could he so eloquently express thoughts that he himself couldn't properly form into a cohesive sentence?

“And just how do you know that?”   
Morstan's voice was cutting but patient, apparently used to being told she was being moronic. The man's voice rumbled in a slightly incredulous laugh, as if he couldn't understand why the woman couldn't just see.

“Look about the room. All of the exits have very obviously been tried. The boy has also created an elaborate code with his sister to allow conversation even when separated, as well as he's strategically placed himself in the hardest part of the room to access. He's not stupid, actually he's quite clever, and clever people usually hate being spoken down to.”

Different footsteps. Confident ones, waltzing forward without a care. The boy held his breath, seeing the edge of a dark coat and impossibly long legs. They were attached to tailor-made shoes. Then the legs got to their knees, and a pale, angular face with midnight-dark curls and piercing blue eyes stared back at him. The face's mouth was turned upwards in a slightly mocking grin.

“Hello.”

The boy looked at him in shock.

****  
Mycroft called Greg letting him know that he'd be running late. Lestrade bit his lip, catching himself from begging the man to come home now. He knew his partner's work was incredibly important to most of Britain if not the world, and loathed to think of what could be so intense that Mycroft actually needed to call and say he'd be pulling long hours.

So he held his tongue and muttered something that sounded passably cheery before he hung up, resuming his pacing even as from the living room he heard the small exhale of a little girl waking up from her slumber. 

Hayley sat up sleepily, her own stomach pulling her from the dregs of dreams with a rather loud and ostentatious growl. She felt warmer than she had been before, and soon looked over to see the dying embers of the fireplace beside her. The woollen blanket fell from her shoulders as she stood, trying to recall exactly what had happened. Everything was muzzy and confused, like the lingering essence of a nightmare. Croakily, she called out for her Mum, the cry dying halfway to her lips when she caught a flash of silver hair and a decidedly nervous figure standing in the doorway. For a moment the little girl's heart stopped as the events of the night before came crashing down on her, and Greg watched as she gasped, eyes wide with realisation. 

Her voice was high and strained as she looked wildly about, desperately hoping she was still dreaming. Greg watched as the little girl reacted like a wild animal threatened with being caged, on her feet in an instant as she backed herself into a tight corner.  
“Mum? Mum!-” 

Before Lestrade even realised what he was doing he was at her side, trying to calm her down as his daughter trembled and pulled heaving breaths from her parted lips.  
She looked up at him like he was a stranger, which Greg supposed he technically was, and flinched away from his touch as if expecting to be slapped. Hayley's voice was rough as she snarled at him, baring her teeth as anger flashed over her features.

“Where's my Mum? I want my Mum!”

It was evident that the little girl wasn't totally awake, her gaze tired and unfocused and generally unpleasant as she glared up at Greg. Feeling as though he couldn't find the right answer if he tried, Lestrade shrugged and knelt beside her. 

“That, my dear, is something I'd like to know as well.”


	7. All Will Be Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short... sorry ^_^'' 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

 

 

The boy that Sherlock found himself greeted with was very small and thin. Dirty, despite the obvious signs that someone had tried to give him a slight scrub-down. His eyes were wide things, cat-like as they shone from underneath the bed. They glared up at him, blue eyes wild and dark with hatred as the boy bared his teeth like a wild animal. 

 

Sherlock returned the snarl with a small smirk of his own, crouching on the balls of his feet as his head tilted in interest to the side. Eyes grazing over the boy, he shot off the observations he found rapidly to John, who stood in the doorway uncertainly. It was obvious that they hadn't worked together in a while, as once upon a time John would have been right beside Sherlock. The detective frowned to himself. He'd have to fix that soon. 

 

“Around nine to ten years old, malnourished and exhibiting extreme distrust of adult figures at least. Right-handed, doesn't seem to speak very much English, perhaps because he was never taught or perhaps because he just doesn't feel like talking. I'd say part of a children drug-smuggling ring, given the suspicious nature of his foster parents as well as the situation in which you found him in. He doesn't like the dark and yet has hidden himself in the darkest corner of the room, most likely because it's the most secure spot. The clothes he's wearing are hand-me-downs, ill-fitting and the shoes have been duct-taped repeatedly. Bruises. Beatings..... multiple ones....”

 

Something passed on the detective's face briefly. The boy saw it, but couldn't identify the emotion. It looked like anger, something cold and livid, and the boy curled closer into his corner. 

“John.”

 

Sherlock's voice softened minutely, then became louder.

“John, if you don't want to be here, you don't have to be. I don't need your assistance for this part-”

 

It was then the boy heard it, the slightly harsh breaths that were coming from a stranger by the doorway.

 

The sound of someone suppressing fear. He knew that sound.

 

However the voice that spoke lowly was calm. Steady as a plane of grass.

“I'm fine. I just wish you'd told me... the nature of the case beforehand.”

There was an apologetic grunt, then another pair of feet come into view, a kind and expressive face coming beside the sharp, angular one. 

 

The man's voice was soft, bright. Friendly. It is the kind of voice the boy could imagine listening to on a rainy afternoon. He ignored the motherly instinct in its volume though, staying where he was crouched. He worked to maintain his mistrusting glare, even when the man sat himself cross-legged on the tile floor.

 

“Hello there. What's your name? I'm John.”

 

Beside the young man, the darkly-curled figure with strange eyes huffed, muttering by the blonde's ear.

“He likes you already. Interesting. You've always had a way with children, even angry ones.”

 

John rolled his eyes and smiled conspiratorially at the boy. His grin was wide.

“Ignore Sherlock. He's a bit of an arse at times, but he really is loveable when you get to know him.”

 

A scoffing noise, and the little boy couldn't help it. He grinned just a little, a low giggle coming from his lips. He hid behind his long bangs, blue eyes softening slightly towards the warm man in the woollen jumper. Though he wanted to be suspicious, he couldn't help but look at the friendly face and marvel. There was a deep kindness in those eyes, something rarely seen. It was made even more obvious when the blonde pulled the man in the long coat closer to him, wrapping an arm about his shoulders haphazardly. The man with sharp cheekbones looked pained and awkward, but that expression thawed when the blonde man pressed a kiss to his temple.

 

“See? A big softie, really.”

 

The boy did not move, but his arms fell away from their tight imprisonment of his legs. Slowly, he shifted his bony limbs to seem less awkward and tense. His suspicion melted away to tentative curiosity, eyes flicking to the juncture between John's shoulder and neck. The edge of an ugly red scar peeked out from it, old but dark. His gaze latched onto it, and the man seemed to sense why. He rolled down his collar partially.

 

“It's from a long while back. A bad person hurt someone I love very much. He's gone now though. No one here is bad.”

 

John stretched out his hands as if to encompass the room, posture deliberately non-threatening.

“No one. It's all safe.”

 

The boy debated. 

 

On the one hand, he did not trust them. Far from it. He trusted no one but his sister. Yet she was gone, and these adults knew where she was. He wanted to see her, it was an ache lingering just under his skin, a desperation. He needed to know she was okay. Biting his lip, he cautiously tapped out a slow rhythm, hardly realising he was doing it. It was automatic, the drum-beat that he and she shared. It meant:

 

_All will be fine._

To his surprise, the man with dark curls copied the sound on the tile, unknowingly responding.

 

_All will be fine._

 


	8. The Sound Of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay update! ^_^ 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Things are just beginning....

 

 

 

When Mycroft finally managed to tear himself free from the mountain of paperwork that was now circulating like mad around his division, he was definitely looking worse for the wear. Not that most people would notice, but there was a slight but definite limp in his gait, and his eyes were purpled with lack of sleep. It was nearly morning as he pulled into the driveway to his home. Dawn painted the London roads with a watercolour mark of orange and copper, almost the exact shade of the elder Holmes' hair. The house stood a solitary figure out more towards the countryside, like a white maiden waiting for someone who would never arrive. The manor was known to most simply by the name  _Wakeley's  Way, _but unofficially it was simply nicknamed  _The Ghost House._

 

Still, Mycroft had never minded the tales surrounding the house, if only because most of them were purposefully planted in order to keep away anyone who might be tempted to knock at his door at ungodly times of the morning. It kept salespeople very much away, and when Sherlock had been much younger and far more a target to bullies, discouraged children from chasing after him.

 

Now, it served as his and Greg's home. However as Mycroft pulled in front of the gates to his house, he noted with some surprise that the garden that was usually so neatly tended to at the front appeared to have been trampled slightly. Frowning to himself, the elder Holmes found himself quickly parking the car, getting out onto the slightly wet lawn to peer at the change with closer inspection. As he leaned forward, he felt a brief and yet fierce spike of concern flash through his chest as he took into account the faint outline of a pair of rubber rain boots.

 

His first instinct was something cold and feral, years of suspicion and fear tingling down his spine like lightning.

 

_Attacker._

 

Then Mycroft looked again and frowned, catching hold of his irrational gut feeling and stopping himself.

 

_Small feet. Very small. Not an adult. Child. Girl?_

 

Judging from the floral pattern left faintly by the soles of the shoes, the answer was yes.

What purpose would a little girl have to wander around his home? To  _climb_ his fence, if the small scrap of fabric lodged in the metal bars was any indication to go by. The elder Holmes found himself drawing a blank. In a moment his phone was out, and he padded the familiar number of his secretary and cradled the device to his ear.

 

After only a moment, she answered.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Anthea, I want you to look over surveillance of my home over yesterday. Specifically by the garden. Is there anything unusual?”

 

Silence as the young woman did her job, filtering through files. It was nearly fifteen minutes later when Anthea finally got back to him.

 

“Sir? It seems you've had a break-in.....”

 

Mycroft felt cold steel rush through him. Frigid as rain water.

_Greg._

 

But before he could react, the woman's voice cut through his thoughts.

“But... not the kind of break in you're thinking. It's why probably the security guards watching your place didn't contact you..... Sir, it's a little girl.....”

A longer pause, trailing off into the distance. Then in Anthea's normally cool and detached voice there was a note of surprise held.

 

“....It seems to be that your partner knows her. He let her inside nearly six or seven hours ago.”

 

Mycroft felt fear wash over him, although no longer for anyone's safety. It was the kind of worry that came with a secret long kept, a quiet discontent that itched when brought to light. It was the kind of distress that came with realising that problems were hovering on the horizon, and what was more they had only just begun to fall.

 

It was the same whispered wind he had felt when the first mention of  _Moriarty_ came, all those years ago.

 

Mouth a thin line, Mycroft got into his car and opened the gate without so much as a farewell to the woman on the other end of his phone.

 

****

John didn't know what to make of the two children, one of which was obviously so filled with fear and hatred that he went so far as to hide under his bed. In the boy he saw a pale reflection of not only his past self but of his sister and his late brother, and the image was disconcerting when crouching in the cool present beside the person he loved more than anyone in the world. The child was like a ghost, and his sister appeared no better when they left to enter her room.

 

She sat cross-legged on the bed instead of under it, but with their intrusion she seemed to startle like a rabbit and dove for hiding. John blinked and quite suddenly Sherlock was right by her side, blocking her escape. The young man hissed a breath through his teeth at the young detective's rather abrupt manner of action. The little curl curled away from him like she had gripped the wrong end of a hot pan, long blonde hair creating a halo about her head as she flew off the bed in order to curl into the farthest corner. Not the best protection but instinctive, better than none. Her wide blue eyes remained pinned to Sherlock's form, never looking away even as John stood uncertainly in the doorway. In fact she didn't seem to notice the other man at all, eyes glued solely to the lanky detective.

 

Sherlock's voice was low and calm.

 

“I am not here to hurt you. Merely to observe. You are the other half of a set of twins. Your brother is in the other room, he is not hurt.”

 

Unlike the boy however, the little girl didn't seem to react to Sherlock's words. Rather, she curled herself if possible closer to the wall, eyes wide as she focused on the man's moving lips, like the sound itself terrified her. John watched tentatively, arms crossed over his chest but poised ready in case the girl decided to lunge at the detective. Not that he didn't think Sherlock wouldn't be able to handle a little scrap of a child, but John was better at immobilizing people without hurting them.

 

Sherlock frowned to himself as if deep in thought. His head tilted slightly to the side, and to his surprise the little girl copied him, her own chin mimicking the movement automatically. It gave her fearful expression an element of curiosity, as if she was trying to communicate through some unspoken word. The detective's eyes narrowed, and his hands came slowly together in thought.

 

For a moment, John watched as Sherlock made a cutting edge of stillness in the room, like a two-dimensional cut-out. The girl's eyes did not draw away from the man's mouth.

 

Then, Sherlock crouched so that his knees touched the floor, close enough so that the girl could feel the vibrations as he very deliberately tapped against the tiles the same rhythm the boy had done before.

 

_All will be fine._

 

John watched in silent awe as the girl let out a breath that could only be described as a gasp, eyes lighting up in recognition. It was a completely different expression from before, the dark confusion replaced with a vague hope and a healthy suspicion.

 

Slowly, her hands lowered to the floor. Tapping out a rhythm Between her knees, the girl spoke in the only way she had learned how.

 

For she had grown up in a world without even the concept of  _sound._

 

_Who are you? Where is my brother?_

 

Sherlock's grin was positively luminescent as he turned to John. His voice held the triumphant rumble of a cat that had finally gotten into the cream.

His words clicked together the beginning of the puzzle for John, although the young doctor's mind was already doing so.

 

“She's deaf.”


	9. Music From Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. the main reason I haven't updated this story in a while is due to some serious writer's block in this plot. HOWEVER that is now gone, so I shall be doing my best to update this as regularly as I can :) So very sorry! Hope you enjoy!

_Sound._

 

There is no way to describe it correctly. So often taken for granted. Something that most people did not even realise aided them in their everyday life. An elegant sense, yet so weak compared to a human's sight, or touch or speech. Something easily ignored, and yet to the little girl seated across from them, something that didn't even exist. Sherlock appraised the child before him critically, dark brows lowered in concentration even as his jaw clicked in thought. The little girl stared straight back, unafraid it seemed or perhaps uncomprehending, blue eyes rounded and soft and shining with an unidentifiable emotion. She mimicked how Sherlock was seated cross-legged on the floor, sitting on her bed with her hands clasped in startling similarity under her chin in prayer-like form. Occasionally, she'd reach for the side of the bed and hesitantly tap something out. Sherlock in response would instantly copy the move, waiting to see her reaction.

 

In contrast to their odd mimicking, John was an unknown variable, floating around the detective's orbit like a lost moon as he watched in speculation. A shade that the girl didn't seem to particularly notice or care about, not when there was an adult in front of her apparently making an effort to communicate. The wide-eyed way in which she watched Sherlock, like an awe-struck little mouse peeking out from blonde bangs, made something twist inside of John's gut uncomfortably. She held in her expression a mixture of fear but wondering disbelief, as if the concept of someone bothering to look her in the eye and _learn_ from her was alien as it was fantastic. Her dirty cheeks were pinkened with the beginnings of a smile, and gradually, John saw what the child was doing.

 

She was... _playing._ Having _fun_ of all things with Sherlock Holmes. The girl didn't seem to realise that the man before her had intimidated half of the police force, or perhaps she just didn't care. There was a certain, pulsing determination to her actions, and it was becoming more and more evident in her eyes the longer she sat across from Sherlock. It was evident in how the careful, determined rhythms she was drumming out on the floor turned into a rapid, syncopated song, interrupted only by the occasional interjection from the detective. If the girl ever had even a concept of what music was, John thought this might be it to her, as she steadily came more and more out of her shell and crept closer towards Sherlock's spindly form. It took John a moment to identify what was sparking in her irises.

 

Something akin to Sherlock's expression when he was overcome with fascination.

 

However, that light vanished when John unconsciously stepped forward, curious despite himself. In the process, his foot nudged the small desk that sat at the corner of the room. The reaction was instantaneous. The drumming hands stopped, and the girl's head whipped around, animal-like and tense as her mouth parted in surprise and outright terror. John realised a moment too late she had thought that she and Sherlock were alone, so absorbed as she was in her game. Without hesitation she dove for the bed, ducking under it to curl protectively into a ball of tension. A screech that was as loud and grating as a parrot's made both John and Sherlock wince. The detective's rumbling voice spoke a moment later dryly.

 

“Well that answers my other question. She's not mute. Although it's evident that both children suffer from not only separation anxiety form one another, but mistrust towards most adults.” As he rose his knees popped audibly from stiffness, and John realised that the detective had been crouched for nearly an hour without respite. When Sherlock turned to John, his eyes were dark with speculation.

 

“We need to see the crime scene. More data is required.”

 

John glanced down at the girl shivering under the bed. His throat felt dry.

“What about them?” He whispered, and to his surprise, the detective actually paused. Sherlock seemed to consider something, eyes narrowed in contemplative thought. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. His murmur was distracted and musing. His question made John pale in dread.

 

“I need to discuss adoption with Morstan....”

 

“What... _Sherlock why-_ ”

 

Before the detective could bound away, John grabbed the man's arm, glare incredulous.

“What are you _planning_ you madman?”

 

Sherlock's eyes burned with fire, and his smile was surprisingly wide and childlike. He spun, catching John's lips with his own before whirling away, coat flapping behind him dramatically.

“Something _fun,_ John!”

 

****

Greg was awoken by the sound of the front door of his home clicking shut. His eyes fluttered as he groaned under his breath, blurrily piecing together the fact that he wasn't sleeping in his bed. That there were no blankets keeping him warm. Rather, his neck was developing an impressively painful crick, and he came to realise he had drifted off on the couch. For a moment, the silver-haired man wondered if he had been drugged, as he tried and failed to remember how it was that he wound up downstairs. The memory at first wouldn't come to him, and he frowned and scowled as he shook his head, trying to piece things together. Opening his eyes, Greg looked about.

 

The first thing he saw were the floral shoes, tucked demurely by the fireplace.

 

Everything clicked when Hayley's voice whispered in a hushed way in the dark of evening. Greg's wide eyes turned to find her seated in Mycroft's favourite chair, legs tucked up to her chin. Her pupils were huge and piercing.

 

“Someone's at the door.” She whispered in a small voice filled with fear, and Greg looked out the window. Indeed, a silhouette hovered, one he recognised and knew even in the dark. He felt his throat go dry, and his heart pounded as he nervously licked his lips.

 

Mycroft.

 

Greg felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, and it wasn't from relief.


	10. The Man In The Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is refused adoption for obvious reasons and John is generally long-suffering.

 

 

Mary Morstan would have been the first to laugh in your face if you had suggested that Sherlock Holmes might be able to soothe a frightened child. In fact, she might not have just laughed, chances are she would have downright suggested that you seek personal help. Though she hadn't exactly known the detective that long of a while, one thing was certain upon glancing at Mr. Holmes for more than an instant:

 

He was like a battery. High-strung, energetic, and frighteningly radioactive when needed. Chaotic at best and destructive at worst. Yet as she looked through the two-way mirror, she was surprised to see that like a cat poised in front of a shivering kitten, Sherlock seemed to hold some kind of special circumstance for children. It wasn't the kind of typical gentleness that she usually saw adults adopt, not the sugary-sweetness that implied having to put up with a person of limited understanding of the world and patience. Rather, it was a piercing kind of focus, and the detective seemed to have no qualms about kneeling at any child's level in order to maintain a sense of equality. How much of it was researched and how much of it was instinct, she couldn't totally say. However it was immediately apparent that not even Sherlock's much talked about _John Watson_ had known that Sherlock could appear to be so approachable and fascinating to a child. It was impossible to read the detective, and much like a well-programmed machine it could be difficult to tell just how much of his learning was instinctual, and how much of it was plain hard work and merciless determination and diligence.

 

However no matter how well he seemed to communicate with the two strange children that crouched in their respective rooms, Mary was not prepared to have Sherlock sweep in front of her in all of his full height and arrogance and _demand_ to know about adoption papers. She gaped at him even as his friend John stumbled behind, struggling to keep up with the man's impossibly long legs even as he growled out “Ignore him, _ignore him_ he's half crazy sometimes-”

 

“Adoption papers, Miss Morstan.” Sherlock, utterly ignoring his partner (from the resigned panic on John's face Mary suspected that it was a rather regular occurrence) “I want to know who is in charge of having these children placed into a home.”

He said this with the utmost confidence, as if there was absolutely no reason at all for Mary to look at him with such an alarmed expression on her features. No reason for John behind him to inhale sharply and look as though he was preparing to scalp the man for his blasé attitude. Sherlock adjusted the collar of his coat with delicate hands, curls bobbing as for the first time he seemed to remember that John was even there. His voice held in it innocent surprise.

 

“Unless of course you have issue with acquiring two new flatmates? They'll likely be quiet once settled, deafness tends to make a person untalkative at least in the verbal sense and the boy I'm sure can be reasoned with. It won't be too hard considering they're both old enough to fix their own meals and it will only be for the duration of the case so long as everything goes to plan. So about a month at most, this looks like it's going to be a six-”

 

“ _Sherlock Holmes.”_ John interrupted with hissed horror, eyes livid as a hand came up to grip the man's sleeve. The detective seemed to freeze, eyes wide in shock as John seemed to suddenly grow five feet, terrifying in his righteous outrage.

“You _cannot_ just assume that _people_ can be passed around like furniture! For _God's sake_ they're children not _puppies-_ ”

 

“Not to mention that they're currently under _a social worker's care._ ” Mary cut in icily, arms crossing over her chest as she shook her head. It made more sense now, sadly. The pieces came together in her head as to Sherlock's motives and painted a picture that made her hackles rise, annoyance sweeping her features as she glared up at the young man in scathing annoyance.

“You can't honestly believe I'd just allow you to treat two human individuals as evidence-”

 

“No but I'd assumed you wouldn't be so quick to pass judgement.” Sherlock snapped in reply, cutting her off before he fully explained himself.

“The two children... they're going to be key witnesses to many of the crimes we're trying to pin on these people. But they're not going to talk, not if we keep them separated. One is deaf and the other is totally centred on protecting her. They won't give a shred of evidence. Not if we don't try and gain their trust. They've grown up in a household that's presumably taught them to trust no one but each other. My suggestion-”

 

“Involves lying about our intentions then dumping them at the shortest notice.” John supplied, scowling in disappointment at his partner before he sighed. “Really, Sherlock? No thanks. I'm not going to be a part of something like that-”

 

“ _John_ it's the easiest way. The quickest method to solving the puzzle. My job is to find results.” The detective's tone had taken on something akin to wheedling, and his eyes were bright with focus. The burning attention of one utterly fixated on a hunt. John however didn't appear to be impressed. His jaw was still tight, and he looked like he was suppressing true anger.

 

“But _mine_ is to make sure no one gets hurt in the process.” Mary cut in, her final say heavy as stone. She looked at Sherlock, shaking her head sharply in rebuttal.

“No. That's my final answer, Mr. Holmes. You will not make contact with the social worker, and you _will not_ get your brother involved, because I know about his position and his influences. And if you push...” She trailed off, hesitating for only a moment before her jaw clenched firmly.

“If you push, I'll ensure you stay off this case.”

 

Sherlock gaped, clearly furious and mildly shocked at such a strong reaction. It was rather comical, if you didn't account for the fact that the man's indignation was real. Mary's parting words were cutting and ashamed as she tilted her chin to the door. Her eyes were cold as steel.

“You do good work, Sherlock. But sometimes, you can be a real arse.”

 

 

****

The Man In The Coat was gone.

That was his thought, even as distantly he heard a door bang in anger, the sound causing him to jump in surprise and curl his knees to his chin.

The Man who spoke to him like he was someone. Like he was... _a person._

The boy bit the skin around his thumb in consideration, rocking lightly in thought over it.

 

The Man In The Coat wanted something from him, then.

It made his blue eyes narrow in careful consideration. He thought about what others had wanted from him, before. Would The Man want powder? Food? Money? All were possible answers. But he might want something else too. 

The boy didn't know what. The thought made a flash of fear course through him, and he shivered.

_What did he want?_

 

Worse, what would he do if he or his sister could not give that something to him?

 

When Mary looked back in on the boy's room, she noticed that the child had bitten the skin around his fingers until it was flaking. Pale skin sitcky and stained with blood.

 


End file.
